


Try As They Might

by Charmeandering



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, BAMF!John, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, but pokemon, i'm not good at writing romances anyway sorry, i'm so bad at updating, i've thought about pokemon irl way too much, john and sherlock with pokemon, just gen, pokemon instead of animals, why am I doing this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmeandering/pseuds/Charmeandering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adding Pokemon to the mix doesn't particularly make things easier for anybody, but it doesn't change as much as one might think— some people make the same mistakes, individuals turn out to be the same people they would have been otherwise, and John Watson and Sherlock Holmes meet the same way they always do: as desperate for a friend as the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John, age 7

**Author's Note:**

> I am so weak-willed please forgive me ahead of time
> 
> It's kind of pathetic but I'm also strangely proud of the sheer amount of time I spend thinking about Pokemon in the real world and how that would work. Then I go ahead and get inspiration from [aiwa-sensei's](http://aiwa-sensei.tumblr.com/tagged/pokelock) beautiful art and spend months trying to figure out how _that_ would work and tada, here we are! I figured if anything, this would be a great creative outlet of sorts.
> 
> I do want to go ahead and try to establish that I am _very, **very**_ bad at keeping up with things like this and updating on schedules. I have things up to ASiP planned out, but I don't have any idea where I would take things from there, let alone if I will. There is a very real possibility this won't be finished, as it's unfortunately not at the top of my priorities list, but I will absolutely do my best to complete it.
> 
> Now that you're sufficiently warned, please go ahead, and I hope you enjoy!

**Age 7**

 

John Watson was prepared to get down on hands and knees and _beg_ his parents to at least take a _look_ at their neighbor’s Growlithe puppies. He had done everything he could in preparation to show his parents how good and responsible he was: he cleaned up after himself, he offered to help whenever he could, and he even began to take care of Harry’s Glameow! John says as much to his parents when he saw them look at each other—that almost _definitely_ means that they’re considering— and tried not to let the feeling of Butterfree in his stomach make him too nauseous. 

His father opens his mouth. “John—“

“I promise to take good care of it and always take it out and train it and not leave it to you like Harry did and oh _please_ , everyone else has a pokemon except me!” John is breathing heavily by this point, and he ignores the stinging in his eyes because he will most definitely not cry. 

“John,” his father starts again, “do you understand all of the responsibilities that come with having a pokemon?” John nods furiously. “And you understand the way Harry has left Celia to us is not the proper way to raise one?” John goes to interrupt once more, but his father holds up a hand. “Do you understand?”

John glances towards Celia, who was watching the exchange from the windowsill in the family room. The Glameow stares back at John impassively, and flicks her tail. John nods back at his father.

“We can’t take care of another pokemon if you stop looking after it, John. It would go to a shelter or pound.” 

“I promise I’ll take care of it!”

John’s mother leans toward his father and whispers, “Do you really think this is a good idea, Tom? John’s only seven, and we waited until Harriet was nine to get her one…” John’s father pauses, and looks back to his son.

John tries to stare back into his father’s eyes, pleading silently to whoever would listen to please, please, _please_ — 

“Well, I suppose we can at least head over to see what they’re like.” John practically leaps into the air at his father’s words, and starts running toward the door before he remembers to double back, thank his parents, and then run back and out the door.

By the time John’s parents caught up with him, John was on the floor being overrun by puppies, laughing and sputtering as they licked his face. The jingle of the doorbell had most of them dashing to the front door, leaving John huffing in laughter on the ground. Pushing himself up, John waves at his parents, who are chatting to the owner of the new litter, and nearly jumps when he hears snuffling by his ankle. Spinning around, he spots another Growlithe puppy jump away from him, ears back.

Smiling softly, John crouches back down and holds out a hand. The Growlithe watches him for a moment before creeping forward again, sniffing gently. As the puppy relaxes, John begins to scratch behind its ears, earning a happy yip in return. Abruptly, the pup is tackled aside by its brothers and sisters, yelping and play fighting in return. John grins brightly as the puppies attempt weak tackles, and glances back at his parents. When his father rolls his eyes and nods, John’s returning smile is nearly blinding. He looks back to the Growlithes and spots the one he was just petting, approaching it slowly.

The puppy runs up to John as he comes forward, barking happily. Scratching its head again, John asks kindly, “Would you like to come home with me?” The Growlithe starts and looks back up at John, studying him closely. John watches in return, noting its smaller size than the rest of its litter and the black spots above each eye, reminiscent of eyebrows. The thought makes John giggle.

The puppy eyes John for a moment longer and suddenly give a short woof, barreling itself into John. John gives a whoop of excitement, and picks the pup up, grinning madly.

John’s mother brings the two home, his father instead heading to register the Growlithe at the nearest Pokemon Center. Carrying the pup up to his room, John starts to show it—him, not it, his father said it was a him—his room, pointing out all of his collections of trainer posters and action figures, as well as his history books and good grades from school. John then glances back at the puppy, which is staring at him curiously. “You need a name,” John decides. The puppy just let his tongue loll and tail whump against the floor gladly. Stroking his chin like he’s seen his father do when he’s thinking, John squints at the Growlithe. Within a moment, he beams and looks down at the pokemon. “What do you think of Gladstone?” The Growlithe pauses for a moment, cocking his head, and barks in return.

“Alright,” John nods, “Gladstone.” He sits on the floor in front of the puppy and scratches his head. “One day, I want to become an awesome trainer. Would you do that with me?” Gladstone angles his head again, and John stumbles up to turn on his telly. “A trainer, like this!” A loud boom echoes John as two powerful pokemon battle on screen. Gladstone watches for a minute before seeming to grin back at John, nodding.

John pumps a fist into the air and throws himself at Gladstone, the two beginning to wrestle on the ground. “Gladstone, we’re going to be the _best_ team ever.”


	2. Sherlock, Age 6

**Age 6**

Mummy was starting to get desperate. Mycroft massages the bridge of his nose as he watched his mother organize, then reorganize the flowers in the vase in a nervous haste in the library. “Mummy,” Mycroft begins softly, “I understand that you’re worried about Sherlock—“

“Of _course_ I’m worried about him!” Mummy pauses, seemingly shocked at her own outburst, and straightens herself. “My apologies, Mycroft, do continue.”

Mycroft hesitates, but begins again. “I understand your concern for Sherlock, Mummy, but as trial and error has shown, interacting with other children his age is and most likely will not ever be his forte.” 

“But it _must_ ,” Mummy hisses. “To retain his good standing in society under the Holmes name, he must learn how to please those around him. If word gets out that he cannot interact with others, it will stain our name for decades!”

Eyeing his mother closely, Mycroft replies, “Sherlock is only six; he has time yet to learn. But thrusting other children that do not compliment Sherlock’s capabilities onto him will only prove to make him less inclined to interact with anyone.” _Let alone what it will do to his confidence in himself_ , he doesn’t add.

Mummy looked prepared to respond, but a sharp cry from down the hallway makes her jump and sprint towards the source of the noise. Throwing the door to Sherlock’s room open, she finds a young boy sobbing on the floor, hands fisting into his eyes in an attempt to staunch the tears. Sherlock himself is seated on his bed, a book laid open on his lap, looking for all the world completely unaware of the crying boy on the ground.

“Sherlock!” Mummy screeched, rushing forward to sweep the crying child into her arms. “What have you done to Dylan?!”

Sherlock glanced up from his book to glare at his Mother. “Nothing, Mummy.”

“H-h-he called me _stupid_!” Dylan shrieked, pointing a chubby finger in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock huffs in response, turning back to his book. Consoling Dylan, Mummy ushered said boy out of Sherlock’s room, calling for a maid to contact his parents.

Mycroft observes coolly, strolling to Sherlock’s room and peeking in the see his younger brother scowling at his book, obviously not reading it in the slightest. Sighing, Mycroft returns back to the living room—well, one of them— to see Mummy toss out the vase of flowers she had previously been antagonizing. Granting her a moment more to gather herself, the eldest Holmes brother clears his throat. “I have a proposal.” Foregoing a snappish return, Mycroft’s mother lifted her eyes to her son’s. “Sherlock has been unable to truly connect to any children his age; perhaps what he needs is something other than a child.” Mummy didn’t respond. “A pokemon would love unconditionally, proving we adopt the correct type. Sherlock would eventually open up, and could then be more open to dealing with the tolerable aristocracy we associate with.”

“A _pokemon_?” She answers, disgust creeping onto her features. “One of _those_ creatures? Utterly unnecessary for a boy of Sherlock’s status.”

“Perhaps, but Sherlock has resented every supposedly ‘intelligent’ child you’ve brought to him, as you’ve been trying to find his intellectual equal. I believe it’s time to let go of that notion, and instead look towards an individual that is willing to befriend him, rather than beat him at a game of smarts.” Mycroft studies his mother’s face. “There are few humans willing to put up with Sherlock’s personality. There are far more pokemon who would be happy to do so.”

Mummy straightens her back and narrows her eyes at Mycroft. She watches Mycroft, searching for any cracks in his argument, for any inconsistencies in his reasoning. When her eyes narrow further and she swiftly turns to walk away, Mycroft allows himself to smirk. Mummy has accepted his case; he’s won this round.

———

Sherlock sends a withering look to his eldest brother, who simply smiles in return. Turning to face the Buizel in front of him, Sherlock glares at the water pokemon. “I don’t want it.” Mycroft arches a brow. Grinding his teeth, Sherlock breathes in deeply. “You only got this water type because you think I’m _lonely_ , and water types are known for their more genial natures. Buizel are high-energy and are one of the more moderately common family pets. 

“This Buizel in particular, though, hasn’t been adopted out due to its weak physiology, evident through its lack of scratch scars most young pokemon adopt in the early weeks it spends with its siblings, making it useless for battles; its passive character allowed its littermates to stand out in comparison to it and be adopted out first. What you’re trying to give me, Mycroft, is a yes-man that can’t actually even speak back, and whose aptitude is clearly questionable—”

Sherlock was abruptly cut off from his tirade when a spurt of water makes its way into his mouth and onto his face. Spluttering, Sherlock paws at his face, astonishment painting its way across his features. Turning to the obvious culprit, Sherlock glowers at the Buizel, who has its arms crossed and a look of soft scolding on its face. The youngest Holmes practically growls. “What do you think you’re doing, you imbeci—” Again, the Buizel stops Sherlock’s rude comments from continuing with another spray of water, amusement clearly playing on its face. Staring at the Buizel with rage, Sherlock launches himself after it, the Buizel quickly turning tail to run towards the manor’s garden on all four legs. Sherlock, though scrawny and none too active, still presses after it, completely ignoring the flowers and plants he stomps through. 

Mycroft watches with pleasure hidden behind a stoic mask, choosing to sit on a porch overlooking most of the Holmes’ grounds. Picking up a book from one of the tables, Mycroft allows himself to only half pay attention to his little brother’s shouts and the Buizel’s squeaks.

Not half an hour later, Mycroft looks up from his book when the shouts and stomps from the garden stop. Both the water pokemon and Sherlock were splayed on the ground, both desperately panting and clearly attempting not to giggle. Sherlock was absolutely soaked to the bone, Mycroft reasoning it to the Buizel taking advantage of the pond in the garden and its better swimming skills. Seeing his opportunity, Mycroft steps forward to claim attention. “If you’re still unsatisfied with the pokemon, Sherlock, I can remove it within the hour…”

“No!” Sherlock sits up, panic briefly taking over his expression. “No! I mean, uh…” He looks back towards the Buizel, smiling contentedly, even fondly, back at him. “It’s… it’s acceptable. It can stay.” Sherlock feels an uncomfortable something shift in his chest when the Buizel grins and jumps onto him, nuzzling into his neck. Giggling, Sherlock falls back onto the ground again, wrestling with the pokemon until a shadow falls over him. Looking up, Sherlock and the Buizel see Mycroft staring down at the two of them; Sherlock momentarily notices that his brother’s smile appears startlingly similar to the fond smile the Buizel had given him just moments before.

“It’s a he, Sherlock, there’s no need to call him an it any longer. But he also needs a name, now that he’ll be with you.”

Turning back to the Buizel— _his_ Buizel now ( _maybe even his friend…?_ )— Sherlock makes eye contact with him, observing the Buizel’s blue eye color, the double stripes on his cheeks, the curiosity in his gaze that Sherlock hadn’t seen before, and nods to himself. “Redbeard.” The newly dubbed Redbeard looks beyond pleased, but Mycroft sends him a pained look.

“Redbeard? The _pirate_?” Sherlock simply lifts his chin in response, and Mycroft sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You win some, you lose some, he supposes.


	3. John, age 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, friends! I managed to write something with less than ten italicized words in it, I'm so proud of myself. 
> 
> I can almost guarantee that's never going to happen again /cries

**Age 12**

John knew the low kick would end with an injury before it was even preformed. Tom’s Machop was just a few levels too strong for Robert’s Zigzagoon. Fingers grasping tighter in Gladstone’s fur, John begins to step forward when he hears the Zigzagoon shriek, almost drowning out the loud _crack_ that followed its landing. “ _Meela!_ ” Robert shouts, but doesn’t move; Tom seems frozen in place, too. John’s already at Meela the Zigzagoon’s side, quickly turning her over to take pressure off her definitely broken front leg. Meela squirms with discomfort, but John holds her steady.  


“Gladstone, you have the first aid kit?” A muffled bark comes from behind John, and he turns to drag the scratched-up case forward. Once John and his friends started seriously battling each other— well, as seriously as nine-year-olds and level ten-and-below pokemon can battle— they quickly realized that a first aid kit would be necessary to patch up their pokemon and, occasionally, themselves. Somehow or another, the task mainly fell on John; then again, he had always been the quickest to respond to an injury.  


But this was the most serious injury to date. Only scratches and twisted ankles and paws had plagued them thus far. This would absolutely require a trip to the Pokemon Center.  


John pops the lid to the case open, grasping around for a bandage with one hand and keeping Meela’s leg elevated with the other. “Gladstone, can you clean the scratch just above her paw?” The Growlithe doesn’t bother to respond and instead begins to lick at the small wound. Finally finding the bandage, John waits until Gladstone is finished to begin wrapping the leg. By this point, Robert has made it to Meela’s side, frantic. Robert reaches to touch Meela, but John shakes his head. “If you jostle her, it could injure her leg even more.” At Robert’s disbelief, John points out, “Your hands are shaking hard, and it could do more harm than help.” Robert looks as though he’s about to ignore John, but then pulls his hand back to his side and hugs his arms to himself.  


The Zigzagoon lets out a peal of whines, and John turns his attention back to wrapping her leg. “We’re going to need something to hold her leg in place…” Turning to Robert once more, John asks gently, “Can you find a strong stick about the size of Meela’s leg?” The boy nods silently, picking himself up and jogging away to nearby trees. Approaching steps makes John turn to see Tom’s pale face staring at Meela. His Machop stands behind him, grasping onto his shorts, his eyes wide and frightened.  


“I’m sorry…” Tom murmurs. “I’m so sorry…”  


“Tom. Oi, Tom, look at me.” John says. Tom looks. “It’s fine, mate. It’s just a broken bone. Meela will be alright after a few days at the Center.”  


“I did this.” Tom said softly. “I knew she wasn’t as strong as Rex, but I still agreed to battle. I still went all out.” Rex clutches at Tom’s shorts tighter, eyes welling up.  


John watches closely, and makes himself relax and smile at Tom. “Hey, look, it’s all right. You know now, right?” Gladstone butts his head against Tom’s knee to back the statement up, letting his tongue loll.  


Robert jogs back to them not too long after that, and the rest of the binding passes quickly. Robert looked as though he’s calmed enough to run off again to get his mother, and Tom appears less likely to pass out by the time Meela’s leg is properly splinted. Scratching Meela’s head, John smiles. “You’ll be just fine.”  


Later on that night, John receives a phone call, unsurprised to hear Robert’s voice coming through the other line. “The nurse said that Meela would be fine. But she said that she’d probably take longer to heal if you hadn’t splinted her leg so well.” Robert pauses, and takes an audible breath. “Thank you, John. You’re really good with this stuff.”  


John smiles. “No problem, mate.”


	4. Sherlock, Age 7

**Age 7**

Violet Holmes found herself staring out the windows in one of the side dining rooms for much longer than she meant to. The windows, looking out onto the porch that led to the grounds behind the Holmes mansion, had at first attracted her only because she had thought she saw fingerprints on the glass— she was right, of course, there were a multitude of smudged prints littering the glass— but she soon found herself staring past the oily marks to the outside estate.

Though she didn’t hear him approach, Violet was suddenly aware of Mycroft behind her. “Did you know he could smile that much?” She murmurs, not bothering to turn. “Sherlock, I mean. Has he ever smiled that widely?”

Beyond the windows blocking Violet and Mycroft from the outdoors, Sherlock kneeled in the grass just before the line of trees of the forest, with Redbeard the Buizel snuffling at roots nearby. Every few seconds, the two would freeze, and one would lean out of the way of a falling acorn, triggering both to break down into hysterical giggles.

Mycroft didn’t bother replying, but then again, Violet didn’t really need him to give her an answer she already knew. Continuing to gaze ahead, she couldn’t sooth the tight feeling in her chest while she watched her youngest son crawl around in the dirt, completely unaware of his pokemon mischievously sneaking behind tree trunks to get close enough to spit water at the boy. Shouting loudly, Sherlock gently placed his pocket magnifier down to dash after Redbeard, his grin practically stretching from ear to ear. 

Another acorn flew down towards Sherlock’s head, but Violet watches as Redbeard turns on foot and knocks it off course with his tails. Sherlock quickly praises the water pokemon, who practically glows with pride, and then turns towards the direction the acorn came from. “Come down, ye foul beast! I know you’re up there!” Redbeard snickers audibly behind him.

“I want to be better for him,” Violet starts again, blinking as a Hoothoot flutters down from a low branch to glance bashfully towards Sherlock and Redbeard. 

“Well don’t act shy now, you were the one tossing acorns,” Sherlock accuses, placing his hands haughtily on his hips; Redbeard does the same behind him. The sight nearly makes Violet smile. Sherlock, meanwhile, hasn’t stopped staring the Hoothoot down. “So? What do you have to say for yourself?” The small bird cooed softly, shuffling between feet. 

“If you wanted to play, too, you only had to say something.” 

The Hoothoot clacked its beak and shuffled again.

“We’re just playing pirates— well, _I_ wasn't, until Redbeard,” Sherlock shoves said pokemon lightly with his shoulder, “decided that playing around would be more fun.” The Buizel rolls his eyes and shoves back. “Well, true, playing around _is_ fun, but if we’re ever going to understand how inland forestry grows in comparison to seaside forestry, we have to get enough samples—“ Redbeard chooses that moment to drop to all fours and spray water towards both Sherlock and the Hoothoot, causing both to splutter and immediately chase after the chittering pokemon. 

“I want to be a better mother for him,” Violet tries again, unable to prevent the corners of her mouth from pulling up. Sherlock was soaked, _again_ , but he was dashing about after Redbeard with the Hoothoot, laughing as he nearly trips and flaunting a smile that, as she said before, was bigger than any Violet has ever seen on him. “You’re so like your father, you two. You couldn’t care less about society and its rules or what’s around you.” Violet begins to frown. “I wonder, if he were around more often…”

“Mummy, we all understand why Father works as much as he does.” Mycroft’s tone leaves no room for argument.

The statement, declared so factually, makes Violet begin to smile once more. “Yes, your Father does do a great deal for us. One would never guess, seeing as he’s as oblivious as can be about some things. But he is so much better with Sherlock than I am.”

“Father,” Mycroft starts softly, “doesn’t care for social norms, as you mentioned, which allows him to accept Sherlock as he is. Though Sherlock appreciates it now, he notices far more than Father does, and will see how his dismissive attitude towards those norms will affect him as he gets older.” Mycroft steps forward to stand next to Violet, watching Sherlock crouch down to talk to Redbeard, the Hoothoot, and now a few more forest pokemon that approached when they heard the commotion the previous three were making. 

“You understand how destructive the lack of a community can be, as loathe as you are to care about so many opinions. Sherlock doesn’t understand that— he probably never will— but he needs the basic lessons you’re able to teach him.” Mycroft falls silent for a moment, and the two watch Sherlock, Redbeard, and the new pokemon act out a pirate crew making prisoners walk the plank. “Social nuances don’t come naturally to him. He’ll never admit it, but he feels so deeply. Rejection has the potential to destroy him.”

Violet finally tears her gaze away from the scene outside to glimpse at Mycroft, raising a single, thin eyebrow. Mycroft continues to stare straight ahead. “It’s not normal, is it? To understand the creatures— the pokemon. To understand the pokemon so well?”

Mycroft wouldn’t answer for a moment. “No,” he says slowly, as if unsure he wants to admit it out loud. “Many people have some basic understanding of pokemon, and large quantities of time spent together can make interactions easier to understand.” The elder Holmes son takes a deep breath before continuing. “But Sherlock can understand most pokemon better than partners can understand each other after years. Aside from the obvious, it seems he has quite the gift.” A booming cheer from outside follows the assertion. Sherlock and the pokemon on his side seem to have won whatever battle the other side, led by Redbeard, lost, proven by the ludicrous way the losers were lying on the ground.

“I want him to be like this more,” Violet finally replies. “I want to be better for him.”

“The fact that you’re trying at all attests that you already are,” Mycroft hums. “He’ll never be like me. The best thing you could ever do is accept the choices he makes, for right or wrong.” Mycroft is still watching the proceedings outside, so he doesn’t see Violet blink strongly after he finishes speaking.

“Did you ever want one?” Mycroft turns to Violet in surprise. “A pokemon. I never asked if you wanted one. Someone who would love, unconditionally.” Violet tries to pretend the mournful note in her voice doesn’t exist, and Mycroft pretends not to softly smile back with sympathy. 

“No, Mummy. I’m much too busy to ever properly take care of a pokemon.” He smiles again, sincerely, just for a moment, before stepping back and away into the house. Violet waits until she can no longer hear his footsteps before letting her gaze focus back outside, only to see that the yard in front of her was now clear, bereft of any children or pokemon. Taking a deep breath, Violet stares for a moment longer before turning around herself, gliding gracefully across the room and down the hall.

Acceptance. She could do that. She could try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt a liiiiitle forced but hopefully it didn't seem that way! But here's a little outside perspective for you to help understand not only the situation for Sherlock (and John at points, too), but for this world in general.


	5. Sherlock, Age 8

**Age 8**

Finding a Pokemon for Sherlock was absolutely the best decision Mycroft could have made. Sitting at a table in the library ( _without_ a scone to join him, thank you very much), Mycroft twiddled on his laptop, settling on a Pokemon care center. Redbeard had turned out to not only be the companion Sherlock so desperately needed, but also the catalyst to discovering yet another of the boy’s talents.

Sherlock simply _understood_ Pokemon. It was inexplicable. Mycroft knew that many people have reported being able to understand their personal companions far more efficiently than their colleagues, but Sherlock’s ability went beyond that. Not only had he connected quickly to Redbeard, but he seemed to understand other pokemon, wild or not, just as well. Even Mummy had noticed it.

It was absolutely fascinating.

Clicking for more information about the care center, Mycroft notes that there would be plenty of mental stimulation for both Sherlock and his Buizel. Holding back a sigh, he continues to read about the center’s history. Since his younger brother had outgrown his pirate phase (thank _goodness_ ), he had found a new fascination in science (… better than piracy, he supposed). Though Mycroft would never admit it, he derived great pleasure aiding Sherlock in advancing his observational skills; he figured Sherlock might be at a skill level that would challenge him by his mid-twenties.

Unable to entirely suppress it, Mycroft cannot help feeling pride and affection for both Sherlock and Redbeard. The Buizel had brought with it not only progression to Sherlock’s social skills (Sherlock had quickly learned that rude statements would end with a stream of water to his person), but also to his contentment. The Holmes’ had simply never seen the young boy so _happy_ before Redbeard took his place within their family. They owed years of gratitude to the water pokemon for its help.

Typing out an e-mail to contact the head of the care center, Mycroft doesn’t bother to look up when he hears Sherlock’s footsteps approaching the library. He doesn’t look up when he hears the knob turn unnaturally slowly, and doesn’t look up when squelching shoes first step onto the carpet.

“Sherlock, you know you can’t be in the house while you’re wet—” Mycroft finally flicks his eyes up, expecting to see his younger brother soaked with water, but nearly forces his computer off the table with his double-take.

“ _Sherlock_ …” Mycroft breathes, pushing his chair aside in his haste to rush to his brother. Unflinchingly placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to steady the younger boy, Mycroft ignores the red that starts to bleed into the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. “Sherlock, what has happened? Speak to me, what can I do?”

Sherlock wouldn’t respond; instead, his eyes stared sightlessly ahead, his pupils blown wide and his breathing shallow. He didn’t even seem to notice the blood dousing the front of his shirt, staining his arms and hands.

“What has _happened_ , Sherlock?” Mycroft shakes Sherlock softly, trying to bring the boy back to himself. Looking behind his brother’s back, Mycroft searches for Sherlock’s shadow. “Sherlock, where is Redbeard?” Sherlock’s head snaps up abruptly, his face further voiding of any color, creating a sharp contrast against the smudge of blood along his jaw. Mycroft felt his heart stutter. “What has happened to Redbeard?”

“He wouldn’t get up.” Sherlock’s voice broke on the last word. Salty tears began welling up in the corners of his eyes as his mouth stuttered open and closed. “I tried pushing his large intestine back in, but it wouldn’t stay in place. The Houndoom tore it out, but I couldn’t put it back.” Sherlock finally looks into Mycroft’s eyes. “Can you fix it, Mycroft? Make him better,” Sherlock swallows audibly, “please. Do something.”

Mycroft feels something tight in his chest fracture as he stares at his brother, who suddenly seems so lost, so small. For once his life, Mycroft can’t figure out what to do. He can’t do something; he can’t do _anything_. 

Instead, Mycroft pulls Sherlock closer, wrapping his arms tightly around the smaller boy’s body as Sherlock’s anguish started to overflow, his sobs echoing in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys remember how we learned about redbeard dying in s3 the sign of three C:


	6. John, age 14

**Age 14**

Gladstone whines softly as John tries to ignore the jeering from the nearby tree. A Mankey swings between the branches, hooting its entertainment before flinging itself back into the nearby forest. Sighing in exasperation, John scratches the back of his neck, casting a sidelong glance towards the Kecleon sitting on its rear in front of him.

Trying to ignore the blank stare the Pokemon was giving him as its eyes turned in opposite directions, John tries not to let disappointment overwhelm him. It’s not like accidentally catching the Kecleon was _horrible_ , or anything. It’s just… he wanted the _Mankey_. 

“… I guess we can try to make this work.” Gladstone yips in response, trying not to look too amused for John’s sake. Pulling out his phone, John checks the Pokemon app for the Kecleon’s moves and tries not to wince. “Uh, Kecleon,” he needed to come up with a nickname soon, but that would mean he’s responsible for it, and his parents said he could only get one more Pokemon until he was allowed to leave to be a trainer, but that wouldn’t be for _forever_ , “use Faint Attack.”

The Kecleon didn’t move; no, sorry, only its left eye moved to stare back at John. The right eye was still looking in a completely different direction. John shudders.

“Try… Lick?” 

Nothing.

“Astonish?”

It blinked!

“ _Tail Whip?_ ” 

The left eye moves again to stare upwards instead.

Throwing his hands up and letting out a groan, John returns the Kecleon into the pokeball ~~that wasn’t even meant for him~~ and shoves it roughly into his pocket once it’s minimized. Gladstone barks at him for it, so John gently takes the pokeball back out of his pocket and places it on his belt instead, next to the Growlithe’s. 

Gladstone grins.

“Right, right, you feel more in the pokeball than I realize, I’m sorry.” Patting Gladstone’s head, the two turn to start the trek back to the Watson household. John distractedly tries thinking of how he could try training the Kecleon, unwilling to write it off immediately. It didn’t appear to be a Pokemon that would enjoy battling, but looks can be deceiving, right?

Walking into his house, John bypasses his mother lounging on the couch, a glass of wine perched in her hand and some crap telly playing in the background. “Find anything?” She asks absentmindedly, but John only grunts dismally in response. Trudging his way up to his room, he drops himself onto his bed. Pulling the pokeball off his belt, John enlarges it and stares at the miniature Kecleon instead.

“What do you think we should do, Glad?” The Growlithe nuzzles his nose to John’s hand, sniffing at the pokeball briefly before sneezing loudly and huffing. Frowning, John fingers the release button, debating what he should do. He knew the first step to being a trainer was believing in his Pokemon, but…

Maybe being a trainer wasn’t quite for him?

John quickly tries to shake off the thought, reluctant to already allow self-doubt to hold him back. But a true trainer _would_ be able to figure out what to do, wouldn’t they? They surely wouldn’t have to spend over an hour trying to come up with a training regiment, let alone doubt themselves. After all, John was good at a great many things, but most of those things came naturally; training, it seems, does not. John glances at his first Pokemon, his lips thinning. He’s had Gladstone for seven years, and he wasn’t even close to the levels Robert’s and Tom’s Pokemon were. John usually was too busy patching up their Pokemon to train his own.

“John!” John snaps out of his reverie at Harry’s wailing call, Gladstone’s ears flattening in annoyance. Grinning at his Growlithe, John looks up to see his elder sister stomping up to his room, arms crossed over her chest. “Celia’s landed on her paw wrong again, can you go—” Harry seems to stumble for a moment, mouth gaping. “What’s that?”

Harry’s cut her hair again, John notes. It’s even shorter than last time; Mum must have thrown a fit when she saw. “A Pokemon.”

“Yeah, what type of Pokemon?” Harry asks quickly

“A Kecleon.” John eyes the pokeball once again. “I want to train it, but it doesn’t seem to be the battling type.”

John sighs, missing Harry’s calculating look. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

“What?” John’s head whips to look back at her. “You already have Celia!”

“Celia’s never been mine,” Harry snaps. “She’s never been what I wanted. Mum and Dad just got her for me because they wanted me to act more like a little _girl_ , you know that.”

“That’s not an excuse not to take care of her!”

“Look, you’re already debating whether or not to release that thing, anyway. No, don’t say you’re not, you liar!” John closes his mouth and glares, placing a placating hand on his bristling Growlithe’s head. “I’m trying to help you out here. You never take long to make decisions, so you obviously don’t really mean to keep it. If you’re so worried, how about you give it to someone who wants it?”

John flinches. Hanging his head, John glances at the Kecleon in his hand for a moment longer before holding it out in Harry’s direction. “Just make sure you take care of this one, will you?” Gleefully jumping forward, Harry snatches the pokeball out of John’s hand. Strutting back towards John’s door, Harry pauses. 

“Oh, and maybe you won’t feel so down if you actually do stuff you’re good at. Training’s not your thing, little brother. Celia’s paw still needs to be looked at.” With that, Harry disappears through the threshold.

Grumbling in irritation, Gladstone turns to look at John. Smiling faintly, John scratches his head, his lips twitching upwards when the Growlithe pushes up into his hand. “She kind of has a point,” John mumbles. They sit there for a moment, the two of them— still just the two of them, John notes, but finds himself thinking _okay, this is okay._

John smiles. “Come on, Gladstone, Celia needs us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what you guys think but Kecleon is the weirdest way to spell something I dunno why I always say "Kelceon" in my head because it seems like it sounds better idk


	7. Sherlock, Age 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> greetings friends my most sincere apologies for the wait! i'm taking summer classes at school while i work, and it turned out to be much more time consuming than i expected. on the bright side, i'm volunteering with the animal shelter near by, which is super amazing because dogs are the most important things in life.

**Age 12**

 

“I’m going to the pool.”

“Sherlock, you are absolutely _not!_ ” Sherlock’s jaw clicks as he snaps it shut, looking as fairly appalled at Mummy’s outburst as Violet herself. Gathering herself up, Violet continued shortly, “The police would never let a child past, anyway, and that awful disaster Pokemon was there! It’s bound to cause more problems, and I won’t have you down there to be in the middle of them,” she finished with a flick of her hand, her eyes narrowed in exasperated frustration.

“Mummy, the disaster Pokemon is known to attempt to warn humans of disasters, not cause them. It’s irrational superstition that convinces people that the Pokemon instigates misfortunes. And the police are idiots, they think it’s an accident!”

Mummy would groan if it weren’t so undignified. “Are you still on about murder, Sherlock? You simply must get over that; it’s an entirely unsuitable phase for a boy your age.” Violet refused to even think about what brought on the severe interest, or how Sherlock’s now more volatile attentions created an even larger rift between him and others his age. Her youngest son never did well in large, public crowds, and the pool couldn’t be a more attractive location for one.

Sherlock chooses not to respond, and instead glowers at his mother. “I won’t be long, don’t bother to wait up.” Sherlock then turns on his heel, and marches toward the door.

“Sherlock, if you do not obey— for goodness’ sake, Sherlock, must I call Mycroft to get you to listen?!”

Sherlock whips around to sneer at his mother. “As if _Mycroft_ would have the time to spare to speak to us, now that he’s at university. Surely you’ve realized that he’s moved on to _bigger_ and _better_ things.” His mother shoots Sherlock a hurt look, stepping back at his vehemence. Sherlock falters, and his face smooths away the wrinkles of his antagonism into a blank façade. “My apologies, Mummy. I did not mean to upset you.” He pauses. “I’ll be back shortly.” With that, Sherlock turns back and quickly walks out the door.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to make his way to the local community center pool, but he still finds that there is far too much time for his mind to wander. He viciously stamps down any thoughts on his elder brother before they could serve to further infuriate him, and callously ignores and people or pokemon he shoves by on his way. Instead, Sherlock directs his mind into a narrow point, focusing explicitly on the cause for the police at the primary school.

Though Sherlock is sent to a private academy quite a bit away, he made it his business to know as much as possible— and that, unfortunately, included people and emotions. He experimented on the students and teachers at his academy whenever school was in session, but during vacation months, he had to make due with the residents near home. So Sherlock filled his head with the social roles and relationships between people and played them like instruments to study their reactions and observe the repercussions.

It certainly didn’t make him the most popular resident in town, but Sherlock paid it little matter. He’d delete any excess information he had gathered once he finally left for London.

So Sherlock knew exactly who the dead boy was, and he knew that there weren’t any current factors that should have led to Carl Powers’ death. No current factors, that is, unless an outside variable was introduced. Subsequently, how did that connect to Powers being singled out, and no one else?

Sherlock’s so wrapped up in his head he nearly kicks a small pidgey aside. Stumbling as he moves his foot at the last second, Sherlock forces his face to morph from its original concerned furrow to a vicious sneer. “Out of the way,” he snaps, stomping a foot closer to the flying type to scare it off. The pidgey leaps away in shock, but looks back up and quirks its head curiously at the young boy, chirping. Sherlock scowls deeply, whipping around to stalk towards the community center. Now he was too frustratingly distracted to pick up where he left off; he’d have to calm down just to enter his head again.

Scowling so harshly he set his features in shadows, Sherlock single-mindedly made his way towards the pool’s entrance. He most certainly did not care about the inquisitive gaze following him when he stamps past an alleyway, and most certainly did not give one wit about seeing a supposedly “rare” pokemon in such a suburban area, since Sherlock only focused on important and _interesting_ subjects, and pokemon most _certainly_ didn’t qualify.

Throwing his full force into the heavy metal door leading to the pool cum investigation scene, Sherlock refuses to care that the door consequently flies open and slams harshly against the wall, drawing every person’s attention inside the building to him. Sherlock _does_ care, however, when he sees police officers cleaning up after the investigation and maintenance workers already draining the pool Powers was found in. He also cares greatly that there aren’t even any sniffer pokemon on location to search for the culprit’s scent.  


Sherlock opens his mouth.

 

———

 

Refusing to let out a hiss in pain at the officer’s sharp grip on his upper arm, Sherlock instead spits back, “The lot of you are allowing your _incompetence_ to blind you to the facts! Are you truly so immoral as to let a criminal get away with the crime, or are you just too dull to understand what murder even is?!” Finally feeling his arm jerked forward one last hard time, Sherlock can barely prepare himself before the officer practically throws him out of the building, glowering all the while. 

“You’ve got some real nerve, Holmes,” the officer states, placing her hands solidly on her hips. “It’s as if you expect us to listen to whatever nonsense you spout _after_ you’ve already come uninvited to our station, _multiple_ times, to tell people _everything_ you think we’re doing wrong.”

“It’s not an opinion if it’s correct, _officer_ ,” Sherlock barks.

The officer only narrows her eyes in response.

“I sincerely cannot comprehend how you and your colleagues willingly look past the evidence practically _dancing in front of your faces_ , it’s astounding! You hadn’t even noticed Powers’ trainers were missing until I pointed it out! I find it incredible that officers with intelligence as low as yours are allowed to even live on their own, let alone attempt to enforce the law—“

“You know, Holmes, for a supposed genius, you sure are an _idiot_.” Sherlock feels his entire body recoil with the shock of the insult, as well as at the impact it has on him. “You muck about assuming everyone should just accept your word as gospel and give no consideration towards the very people you claim to be ‘helping.’ Well, I’ve got a lesson that you don’t seem to have learned yourself yet, genius: get over yourself.” Sherlock’s jaw clicks shut once he’s realized it had fallen open some time ago. The officer steps back, throwing up a mocking salute as she does so. “Cheers for the baseless, useless information you brought us, Holmes. We’ll make sure everyone does absolutely nothing about it.”

Sherlock somehow can’t tear his gaze away from where the officer had been standing, not even looking up once she disappears back inside the community center. Forcing himself through a vigorous reboot, Sherlock viciously beats down any reaction, he’s not reacting, _no reaction _, and straightens himself, turning on foot to march home. He nearly trips himself up once again when he finds the very pokemon he had so steadfastly ignored on his way in just ahead of him. “Could I _help_ you?” Sherlock snarls, his entire body rigid. “Some _tragedy_ to help me foresee? Your type’s alleged predictive nature is exponentially less credible than my observations, and there aren't even people of any significant intelligence to listen to me around here, so everyone’s even _less_ likely to believe a pathetic creature like you.”__

The absol makes no response, instead continuing to stare at Sherlock, almost _observing_ him. The thought drags a roar of frustration and wrath from the younger boy. Shoving past the absol unforgivingly, Sherlock makes his way back home, desperately pushing the entire experience to the back of his head, to the trash to delete the whole episode. He wouldn’t care, he _doesn’t_ care, he doesn’t have the time or patience to be out here anymore. He has experiments waiting at home to get back to, anyhow.


End file.
